Ivory Tower: exclusive access to the diaries of the secretary of state for education
Monday
“The children are going back to school on 8 March,” I say thumping my copy of the Telegraph on the table.
“Thank God,” says my wife, “these two are driving me nuts”.
“No, I mean all yoongsters,” I say buttering a slice of toast.
“Yoongsters?” she asks.
“Yes, yoong peephole, the life blood of this great nation,” I say looking for the marmalade.
“It’s alright for you, heading out the door to the department. What about the rest of us trying to do home schooling?” she says, moving the marmalade just out of reach.
“I have been very clear, schools must provide quality online education or face an OfSted inspection,” I say, wondering if she is going to use the marmalade.
“And how many OfSted inspections have there actually been?” she asks, standing up and putting the marmalade back in the cupboard.
“Err…none. Which shows what a good job teachers are doing,” I say.
“What do you think OfSted would find if they visited this home school?” she says.
I’m beginning to think she might be in a mood with me.
“Two exhausted children, a teacher at the end of her tether, and an absent headmaster,” she says, beginning to clear away the breakfast dishes, noisily.
“The school is required to provide four hours per day of quality…”, I say.
“Have you looked at that laptop, it’s crashing again,” she says, “one is on her phone, the other has an ancient iPad”.
“Can I have the marmalade?” I ask.
She snorts and picks up my Telegraph.
“Dad, what’s the square root of 1,296?” asks my daughter.
“Err…is that my car just arrived,” I say.
“Dad, can you give me an example of a fronted adverbial?” asks my other daughter.
“After work, I will answer your questions,” I say.
“Thanks dad, that’s a perfect example,” she says.
“Eh?” I say.
“Dad what’s the square root of 2,704?” says the other one.
“I really think that’s my driver at the door,” I say and stand up.
“Dad, who is Frank Spencer?” says one daughter.
“Dad, what’s a whoopsie?” says the other.
I pick up my red box and go out the front door. No sign of the car. I think about going back inside. Decide not to. I begin to walk to work. It starts to rain. Should I go back for an umbrella? I keep on walking.
Tuesday
“Is that really how algorithms work?” I ask my SpAd.
“It’s called Tosser’s Law,” he says.
“Is it?” I ask.
“It is a law of statistics that if you toss a pile of exam scripts down a staircase the percentage of scripts that land at the bottom, middle and top, correspond exactly to those that would have achieved top grades, passes, and fails,” he says.
“And that is how we are going to mark A-levels this year?” I say.
“I have the draft press release here, we just need a quote from you,” he says.
“Do you have anything in mind?” I reply.
“Gavin Williamson, secretary of state for education said, ’I think our teachers will be great tossers this summer’?” he suggests.
“I’m not sure about this,” I say, “I think we should go with plan B."
“What? Allow teachers to come up with a grade by any means they see fit?” he snorts.
“Yes, why not?” I say.
He rolls his eyes, “try explaining that to the party conference,” he says.
“Oh, is that happening this year?” I ask, “every cloud and that”.
“I suppose we can blame the teachers when it all goes wrong in the summer,” says the SpAd.
“Is it going to go wrong?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes again.
“We could blame the teaching unions,” I say.
“I’ll prepare a new press release, minister,” he says.
Wednesday
“Is that a Marlborough Fire Master 5000?” I ask.
“Are you paying attention?” says the Prime Minister.
“Absolutely, just wondering about the fireplace,” I tell him.
“Look, we can’t have another mess,” he says.
“You should clean out the cold ashes regularly,” I suggest.
“I’m talking about ensuring a level whatyamecallit,” says Boris.
“You should always make sure your surface is level before laying the mantle,” I say.
He sighs, “we can’t afford a summer like last year.”
“Heating costs are usually lower in the summer,” I say confused.
“A-levels man, I’m talking about A-levels,” he says in exasperation.
“Oh those, yes, I agree we don’t want to upset the voters,” I say.
“Voters?” he asks, now he looks confused.
“Isn’t that what you mean? Another A-level fiasco would upset the voters?” I say.
“Not the voters,” he replies putting his head in his hands.
“Vice-chancellors?” I say, just guessing now.
“Carrie,” he says. I think he might be crying.
“Is she sitting A-levels?” I ask, very confused now.
“No, she wants to go on holiday and doesn’t want me to be distracted by a media scrum over exam results,” he says, still with his hands in his heads.
“And you are going with her?” I ask, trying to be helpful.
He nods quietly, I think he is sobbing.
“Camping?” I ask.
He nods.
“In Scotland?” I ask.
He lets out a whimper.
“Are you sure you don’t want another A-level fiasco?” I ask.
He begins to cheer up, “what time are you doing the Downing St press conference?” he asks.
“5pm,” I reply.
“Great, are we going for the tossing algorithm?” he says.
“That’s a bit strong, but we’ve got a plan, certainly,” I say.
He starts humming Scotland the Brave and pokes the coals in the fireplace with a Camelot 900 poker and companion set.
Thursday
“What do you mean they won’t be ready?” I shout down the phone.
“They can’t test all the pupils and bring them back to school on the same day,” comes the reply.
“And who put you in charge?” I say.
“You did, I’m the interim head of Ofqual,” says the interim head of Ofqual.
“But I’ve just promised that the children will be going back to school on 8 March,” I say.
“You might want to un-promise,” he says, sounding nervous.
“Who is saying this?” I demand.
“The headteachers,” he says.
“Bolsheviks,” I say.
“Steady on secretary of state,” he says.
“Don’t these Marxist head teachers want children to learn?” I say.
“I don’t think they are Marxists, minister,” he replies, “at least not all of them”.
“They read the Guardian, don’t they?” I say.
“Do they?” he says.
“Listen, there is absolutely no way I’m going to do this,” I say firmly.
“Can’t you get another member of the government to say something,” he suggests.
“I’m told, I own this one. Could you say it?” I ask.
There is silence on the end of the phone.
“My wife will believe it coming from you,” I say gloomily.
“Your wife?” he asks.
“You’ve no idea what it’s like, the constant pressure of home schooling, the kids at home, morning noon and night,” I say.
“But you’re in your office,” he says.
“I daren’t go home. I’ve been here with the tarantula for days,” I say, looking out the window.
“Look secretary of state, you are just going to have to tell her yourself,” he says.
“Do you know the square root of 2,704?” I ask.
“I think, I’ve got a call coming in on Teams, got to go,” he says and hangs up.
Maybe, I’ll dine in the Commons tonight, might be a late-night bill on road haulage or something I need to vote on. Where’s Brexit when you need it?
Friday
“And do all the vice-chancellors feel this way?” I ask on the Zoom call.
“Absolutely,” says the vice-chancellor.
“But she’d make such a good Free Speech Champion,” I say.
“I’m not sure if Katie Hopkins would bring sufficient gravitas to the board of the Office of Students,” they say.
“Goodwin?” I ask.
“It’s not a win for universities,” they say.
“No, I mean that yoongster whose always on the telly, something Goodwin,” I say.
“Yoongster?” asks the vice-chancellor.
“Matthew Goodwin, he’s a Tory professor,” I say.
“I thought you said there weren’t any?” replies the vice-chancellor.
“What about Andrew Neil?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure he’s not a professor,” says the vice-chancellor.
“Well, if Universities UK don’t want someone imposed on them, they will need to row behind a single candidate,” I tell them.
“We’ve been thinking about that,’ says the VC.
“Really?” I say, obviously I’ve finally got through to this lot.
“One man who has stood up for his principles, said what has to be said, no matter the cost, who has put his right to speak above everything and everyone else,” they say.
“Sounds ideal, who is it?” I ask.
“Alex Salmond,” they reply.
I put my head in my hands. I think I want to cry.
“Are you OK, secretary of state? Is there anything I can help you with?” says the vice-chancellor.
“Do you know the square root of 2,704?” I ask.
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